After the Fall
by Hanshotfirst
Summary: My first Sherlock Fan fiction. Please don't ridicule me but critical feedback is better than none at all. Hopefully eventual Johnlock! After the fall, Sherlock starts to play a game with John before revealing that he is alive.


Damn it. He had tried endlessly over the past few months to deny this emotion, suppress it under shell after shell of equanimity and discipline, but it was no use. The envy he felt towards Spock was unbearable (Mr Spock was a mostly emotionless creature off a tv show that John sometimes watched and Sherlock had caught a glimpse of now and then)

Sherlock was lonely. And , he needed a hug. From John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and even, dare he think it , Anderson. It was damp and pitch black, the only light in the room from a harsh LED key torch and the dullish yellow light streaming in the window from the streetlamp outside. He had been living like this for a month and a half, in an abandoned tobacco factory in Camden. But why? Why abandon all comforts and separate all ties to the ones he , um,_ appreciated_?

The reason was lying in the ground , several feet down in Kensal Green Cemetery , secretly buried by an associate of Moriarty's immediately after The Fall. Sherlock had spent the many weeks in the empty tobacco factory for two reasons. One ; the factory simply reeked of nicotine, which Sherlock's favorite smell in the world and helped him think. Two; he was working in secret to untangle the vast , twisted cobweb that James Moriarty had spun and destroy every last living associate of his . His quest to expose the people of spider Moriarty had led him to discover the shocking truth; thousands of people living far across the country had known him, done business with him or been bribed by him to do horrible things simply because he was bored. But on this icy cold , windy night, Sherlock had finally finished.

When he usually worked things out , Sherlock felt a certain feeling of euphoria and superiority above others. But tonight, he felt alone, mentally and physically exhausted. He knew why, he had even said it to John on their first case together "That's the frailty of genius. It needs an audience". Sherlock wanted to be appreciated, be praised, insult people and experiment on body parts again. But underneath the swamp self-pity that Sherlock was now wading through was an ever-present desire, to see Mrs Hudson and shoot her wall with a gun and fill her microwave with eyeballs, to see Lestrade and tell him the truth, and most of all , to see his John once more. Sentiment. Gah. Dull. But inevitable. Absence makes the heart grow fonder ( as he had heard in a song by OpShop)and , although he originally denied it, Sherlock had come to realize that he did in fact have a metaphorical heart, albeit a small one.

And yes, he had now come to terms with the fact that he was fond of John. And that fondness was growing every day , like some fungal growth at the back of his mind, only warmer and softer, impairing his cognitive functions and constantly gnawing away at his prefrontal cortex.

But that pain would stop tomorrow. Sherlock desperately wanted to lay eyes on John's face again, the face lined with anxiety , that short but muscular body, those wonderfully huggable-looking sweaters…

No! Sherlock forced the image of him embracing John out of his head. He had heard what he said to his grave on the day of his "funeral", he heard what John had said about being alone and how he , Sherlock was the best man he ever knew. But John was straight. He invited woman after woman into their flat in Baker Street, never being entirely successful but never giving up all the same. If Sherlock talked about his –Yuck- feelings, John would just say his usual "God no" and storm off in that brisk, soldier-like march. But maybe, just maybe , there was a glimmer of hope . John's unpredictability had always seemed to Sherlock as a major flaw , and today was no exception.

Tomorrow would be the day that Sherlock would begin his little game. He would have to plan very carefully, and do some research. Sherlock loved games. That was what gave Moriarty a certain appeal over your average criminal mastermind. He got bored, just like Sherlock. But what had separated Sherlock from Moriarty was that , deep down, Sherlock knew that he cared. It was a weakness , it wouldn't save people's lives, and there was too much pain in the world to know what to care about.

But Moriarty was dead. Sherlock was alive. He would not be beaten. And so began a game that was different to any Sherlock had played before. One of , as Sherlock liked to call it, that game would reach a very interesting conclusion.


End file.
